Remorse
by Kluddle
Summary: In English class, the students are told to write a poem which illustrates the darkest, most miserable parts of their soul. David Karofsky's poem seems to revolvle around one person in particular. One-shot.


**A/N: **This is just a one-shot that would not leave my head. Seriously, I tried to chase it away with pitchforks. *Sighs* I really hope you like it! :) Reviews are much appreciated. They make me feel all fuzzy and happy inside. ^_^

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the poem Karofsky writes. That's mine. *Feels proud of herself. XD*

**~...~...~...~...~...~...~...~...~...~...~**

Based on his outward personality, many people (sane people), would look at him and think to themselves; '_This guy, he doesn't give a crap_.' Slushies, name calling, locker face plants, this guy would dish them all out with a grin or a smirk or whatever improper smile he felt like sporting at the time. And everybody knew, too, that this was just the way high school seemed to work, and though not a lot enjoyed this fact, many accepted it. The students, heck, even some of the teachers, speculated on whether or not this boy and his minions ever had any regrets about the bullying they did. Most came to the conclusion that appeared obvious: That no, they did not. Karofsky and all the other jerky jocks didn't care that they hurt other people, it was just…what they did.

But most people were wrong, because, you see, Karofsky does have regrets. He has dreams and wishes and remorse, too. Take, for example, a couple days after the Kurt Hummel locker incident. It was second period, and the English teacher, Ms. Palely, who always wore way to much make-up then was humanly accurate, gave the class an assignment; to write a poem which illustrates 'the darkest, saddest parts of your soul'. It was later discovered that Ms. Palely had just broken up with her fiancé at the time.

Karofsky had just sat there, royally pissed, because heck if he knew, let alone liked, writing poetry. But Ms. Palely knew his mother, and he was sure that if he failed this class, his parents would have a fit, and Karofsky just couldn't deal with that.

So, he got down to writing. It wasn't a masterpiece by any means-heck, it hardly made _sense_, but it rhymed, and it was at least twelve lines long, so, he thought; '_Screw it, this is the best I'm doing.' , _and handed in his poem.

The next day in English, Karofsky had sat fiddling with his dull pencil, waiting for his name to be called so he could get his poem back and find out the mark. "Gale, Maggie, Kevin…David." The way Ms. Palely said his name gave Karofsky a sinking feeling. Crossing his fingers, he grabbed the sheet of looseleaf with sweaty palms and waited until he was back at his desk to unfold it.

A+. He had gotten an _A+. _Underneath the mark was a sloppy sentence written in blue pen; '_See me after class.' _Karofsky's good mood instantly sank. Obviously he had done _something _wrong. He never got very high marks in English. Usually he fell around a C or a B-, mainly because writing didn't come as naturally to him as it did to other people.

The bell rang, echoing loudly in his ears, and once the last teenager had exited the room, he shuffled up to the front desk where Ms. Palely was sitting. She seemed to be stapling a bunch of papers together, but once she noticed Karofsky, her head came up and she gave him a smile. "Ah, David. I just wanted to congratulate you on a great poem, it's definitely the best work I've seen from you all year." Karofsky looked confused; since when did he have a good sense for writing cheesy, depressing poems? Ms. Palely watched his eyebrows nit together and gave Karofsky a small, feeble grin. "I could tell it must have came from a place deep inside you. It almost seemed as though you were writing it _to _someone.", Ms. Palely explained, thoughtfully. Suddenly, she leaned over the front of her desk and stared Karofsky in the eyes, her voice becoming a tad bit pressuring. "It isn't…y-you don't need to talk to anyone about this, do you? Because, I, well, I could put you in contact with Ms. Pillsbury. I'm sure you-"

"I'm fine." Karofsky stated icily, interrupting whatever Ms. Palely was going to drone on about. Like David Karofsky would even consider talking to that physco, clean-freak, sorry excuse of a guidance counsellor. "So…yeah. Thanks." Muttering to himself, the boy stalked out of the classroom. Seriously, Karofsky _knew _he should have stopped his thoughts from straying towards…_him_…well writing that dumb poem. Swearing, he crumpled the paper and threw it towards the garbage, and didn't even notice that it never landed in the bin. Instead, it lay unwanted on the cold, dirty school hallway tiles.

**~ … ~ … ~ … ~ … ~ … ~ … ~ ... ~ ... ~ ... ~ ... ~**

Later on that day, a young boy in a wheel chair looked down curiously as he felt one of the wheels on his chair roll over something. Pulling a small mound of paper into his lap, he slowly smoothed out the wrinkles and began to read what seemed to be an untitled poem:

**Sorry but… **

**I've got a problem**

**Don't know what's in store**

**I tried to stop, **

**I tried to change**

**Only made it grow more**

**And so I implore**

_**~Please...**_

**Don't trust me**

**Please don't even begin to care **

**Only makes it hurt worse**

**Keep your distance**

**Stay far away**

**This suffering's a curse**

_**~Please...**_

**Be on guard**

**Be very careful**

**Try to ignore me lashing out**

**I don't believe you can forgive me**

**It doesn't seem possible**

**Besides, I have to many doubts**

_**~Well...**_

**It's true I've got my problems**

**I wish I could get through**

**I'm so frickin' annoyed by everything**

**How my soul can't seem to move**

**Though one of the biggest things**

**I hate about myself**

**Is that I keep on hurting you**

The boy couldn't tell who had wrote it, since a big smiley face sticker was covering up over half of the name. "Davi..." The boy in the wheelchair read out loud. Well, there were lots of people at McKinley whose name's started like that.

"Hey, Artie! You coming or not?" Startled, the young boy quickly dropped the poem into the garbage, as if he had done something wrong by reading it. He felt as though he had eavesdropped on another person's life, and that was just freaky. Shaking his head of such thoughts, he quickly raced down the hallway to catch up to his friend. _'It was…probably nothing anyway. Yeah. Probably nothing…'_


End file.
